by J. M. Green
The thing to do was run. Start a new life, maybe in Fiji. Live in the tropics, eat bananas, and become an artist, a modern-day Gauguin. I’d always had a vague ambition to be artistic. If I had only chosen that path back then, I’d be good at it by now and I wouldn’t be a burnt-out social worker with real estate and a guilty conscience.
New plan: I would take the redundancy package from work and flee to Fiji — and live a humble, modest life in a tropical paradise. It was an excellent plan, and the first step was to visit this art gallery to get some inspiration.
Also, I imagined Ben’s face when I told him I’d spent the afternoon in an art gallery: a look of soaring, credulous esteem.
In a sudden burst of elan, I bounded up the stairs. As I approached the gallery door, I heard a series of sneeze-explosions, five, six on the trot. At the top of the stairs a metal sliding door was open enough to squeeze through. Beyond, tinny music played through rough speakers, a female voice singing. I squeezed through the gap and found myself in a cavern with a high ceiling, concrete floor, white walls, and a wall of grimy windows at the far end. Standing by the windows, in front of an easel with a stretched canvas on it, was a dusty-looking dude with dark hair and grey stubble. He was blowing his ample beak into a manky hanky. I cleared my throat. He pocketed the handkerchief, picked up a paintbrush, and started tapping his foot and humming, oblivious to anything else. ‘Hey,’ I yelled.
‘Jesus.’ He clutched at his chest and staggered. ‘You scared the crap out of me.’
‘I saw the sign.’
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.
‘Gallery?’
‘Oh, right.’ He dropped the brush into a tin on the floor and wiped his hands on his jeans. He had wary blue-grey eyes that watched me while he stooped and hit the stop button on the tape player. A genuine cassette tape player. Little towers of tapes beside it.
‘Peter Brophy,’ he said, hand extended.
I reached my hand through the handles of my plastic bag for a shake.
‘Shopping?’
‘Leftovers.’
‘This way.’ He got out a bunch of keys. ‘Security conscious,’ he said apologetically. The adjoining room was larger still, with afternoon sun filtered through cloudy windows. The canvases were arranged at even intervals along the wall, about fifteen or so. Repetition in the style: light central figures bordered by darker hues. I walked up to the nearest one for a closer inspection. A man, a business executive type, with multiple arms à la the Hindu pantheon. A fist full of dollars, a mobile, a flower, and a tea cup. A line of fish swimming nose-to-tail circled the man, and a kangaroo looked on from the side. The face, half in shadow, seemed skilled in the ways of absurdity — no smile, intelligent eyes. At once sad and beautiful. Strange emotions clashed within me; a fissure threaded along a weak seam.
The next painting had the same man in a different stance, dressed as a Shakespearean figure, with a rap-artist pose, encircled by seagulls. Sure, there was a naive quality, a surrealist idealism thing. But they were enthralling and pleasing and I liked these paintings, how uplifting they were. I was on the verge of laughing out loud. Not that there was anything cartoonish here; he was a serious guy.
‘The opening is tonight.’
Whoa — he was behind me. I turned, a look of unabashed joy on my face.
‘You’re welcome to come, if you want. There’ll be cheese. Some kind of cheese. On toothpicks.’
‘Classy. Did you do these?’
Both fists went into his pockets. ‘Mucking around with an idea.’
‘I like them.’
‘Buy one then.’
I laughed. ‘How much?’
He blinked, smiled. ‘Let me see. You a collector?’
‘Absolutely. All my money is in art.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, God yeah. DVDs mainly. Actual box sets of DVDs. Complete sets!’
A grin cracked under the stubble. ‘You drink beer?’
‘Is the Pope an accessory to — I mean, yes. I do.’
He stayed looking at me for a millisecond, then left.
Now I could continue at my leisure. I stopped at the last painting. A glimpse of lovers with languid arms entwined, plain and raw and magnificent.
‘Here.’ He pressed a stubby of VB into my palm.
I took a sip. The moisture triggered unrestrained thirst. I sipped at it again, then kept going, taking a long drink. It neutralised the saltiness but it wasn’t enough. I upended it. It was good. Then it was gone. ‘Thanks. So what time tonight?’
‘What?’ he asked, looking with astonishment from the empty stubby in my hand and back to me.
‘The opening tonight, what time is it?’
‘Oh, um. Nine-thirty,’ he said. He picked up a flyer from a desk by the door. ‘Official invitation.’
I stuffed it in my pocket. ‘Great.’ I handed him the empty. ‘See you then.’
Trotting down the steps, I hit the pavement at a canter. The spring was back in my step. I walked to an idling tram and sat down just as my phone buzzed.
A Phuong text: Brodtmann staying @ crown. You call?
My phone battery was nearly flat. I replied: Yes thnx. While I was searching for the number of the Crown Casino Hotel, my phone rang.
‘This is Clayton Brodtmann’s assistant, Nigel Broad. Is this Stella Hardy?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are a friend of Nina Brodtmann?’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘You reported her missing. The police have been in touch with the family.’
‘Right.’ I was flustered for some reason. ‘I told them that Nina didn’t meet with me this morning as arranged, and she didn’t show up for work. I’m worried about her.’
‘And you’re a friend of Nina?’
‘Yes.’ I fought the urge to say ‘Sir’.
‘Miss Hardy, Clay Brodtmann has instructed me to — just a minute.’
The tram moved with a sudden jerk and I almost slipped off the seat. Outside, two people came running alongside and banged on the doors. The driver stopped to let them on, telling them they should not bang on the tram. They told him to get fucked.
‘Miss Hardy?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Clayton Brodtmann. My wife and I are very grateful for your concern about our daughter. We wondered if you might have time to talk to us, to tell us more about Nina. Would you mind coming to our hotel?’
‘Sure, but I can’t get there until —’
‘I’m sending my car to your flat now.’
A car? Who were these people? When the tram was two blocks from my stop, I saw that the nearby high school had just unleashed its students on the world. It must have been sports day — teenagers in shorts wandered like Brown’s cows all over the place, jamming the roads in every direction. I hopped off the tram and walked. There was no car waiting for me in Roxburgh Street.
As I neared my building, the stocky bloke in the shorts and the thongs, who I’d seen earlier, ambled out of the entrance and up Roxburgh Street. Maybe he’d moved into the neighbourhood.
Upstairs, I kicked off my boots, and plugged my phone into the charger and tried Mrs Chol while it was charging. Still no answer.
While I waited for Brodtmann’s car to arrive, I opened the laptop and searched for images of Melbourne gangland identities. I scrolled and clicked for a while — then I found him. The man I’d seen talking to Mabor was Gaetano Cesarelli. He was a flamboyant man, Gaetano. In one picture, he was addressing reporters outside court in a Hawaiian shirt and striped shorts. In an Age photo, he had on aviator sunglasses and a black muscle T-shirt. An article mentioned his convictions for grievous bodily harm, illegal possession of firearms, his beating up an old man in a road rage incident.
; There was still no sign of a limousine downstairs so I googled Constable Thomas Ashwood. There was a news item that named him as the first police officer on the scene of a suicide in a remote house in, of all places, Warracknabeal.
Nick Cave was from Warracknabeal.
I googled Nick Cave, chased a few random links, and found a great version of ‘The Ship Song’ by Amanda Palmer. I googled Amanda Palmer and found a YouTube video of her song about her ‘Map of Tasmania’, a clear winner for my new ringtone. Once I’d downloaded it to my phone, I googled Oarsman’s Bay: a tropical paradise in the Fijian archipelago. Downmarket from Turtle Bay, upmarket from Suva. A place without a care. Little bungalows, all meals provided. My neighbours’ friends Joyce and Frank were probably sipping cocktails as they swayed in their hammocks, the gentle lapping of the sea in their ears, the swish of palm leaves above them.
I closed the laptop, and checked out the window. A white limousine was just pulling up under the pine tree. A man in the chauffeur’s uniform headed into my building. I hopped around the room trying to get my boot on, while brushing my hair and putting on my jacket. When I got downstairs, I found the driver studying the names on the intercom in the foyer. The remote locking system didn’t work and the names were all incorrect but it did lend the place a certain air of fear and suspicion that said class.
‘You Stella?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nigel Broad. Mr Brodtmann sent me to pick you up.’
That was the extent of our conversation — after that, total silence, even the outside world was hushed, like being driven around in a sound-proof hotel suite — until the car pulled in at Crown Casino. Broad murmured into his phone then snapped it shut. ‘Go wait in the foyer,’ he told me. ‘Ms Watt is coming to get you.’
10
CROWN CASINO, a cesspool of avarice, corruption, and thuggery, with fancy carpet and flashing lights — and the sound of money going down the drain. It was well known that Melbourne’s criminal society used its rooms for their transactions, that urine gathered in pools under the blackjack tables, that highfliers were seduced while misbehaving low-rent punters were put in a wristlock and manhandled out the door. The ballroom hosted grandiose sports nights, replete with a televised red-carpet parade of tizzed-up WAGs.
I hung around the foyer wondering who, exactly, might be impressed by all this phoney razzle-dazzle when I saw a blonde bouffant weaving through the crowd. Crystal Watt wore a tan and white ensemble — leather skirt and jacket, white over-the-knee boots. Up close, her face was gaunt and pale, as though she was permanently exhausted; her nose was straight and probably cost a bomb, but she had left the eyes undoctored. The area around them was dark, the expression pure sorrow. Rather than a flaw, it had the effect of softening the beauty and making her extraordinary. I imagined that a lot of men, some women even, would very much like to make her smile.
‘You’re Stella?’
‘Yes.’
She looked me over with a hint of dismay. ‘You are friend of Nina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come with me.’ She hooked an arm around mine and I inhaled an expensive floral scent. ‘We go in private entrance. Security-pass area.’ She had a pass card on a lanyard. ‘Suite is nice.’ She took me out of Crown’s casino and into its hotel via a covered walkway. I trotted to keep up with the clip of her boots on the polished marble.
‘You will see my dogs. Did she tell you? I have two.’
‘Er, no.’ I assumed ‘she’ was Tania.
We stopped at doors marked staff only. Crystal opened them and walked to a goods lift. She swiped her card and gave me a sidelong look. ‘She is Tania now.’
‘Yes,’ I answered, not sure if it was a question.
‘Nina is nice name. After her grandmother.’
The doors opened; we stepped in and the lift raced skyward and then cruised to a stop. The doors opened again and a man in a tartan sports jacket stepped in. The moustache, spiffy bow tie, and waist coat — it had to be Merritt Van Zyl, the man I’d seen in the photo.
He backed up. ‘Look who it is, the Polish Madame.’
‘I told you, I’m Russian,’ Crystal hissed at him as she passed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had business with Clay,’ he said.
‘What business?’
‘None of yours.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Who or what is this creature? Not one of the well-heeled, is she?’ He turned to Crystal. ‘Did one of your customers request an ageing lesbian cleaning woman?’
‘Hey, Happy Hammond.’ I pointed my finger at his face. ‘None of those things is an insult.’ I stepped into his personal space. ‘But only a dick would say well-heeled.’
He shrank back into the lift, rapidly jabbing the down button.
Crystal laughed and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t take notice. He’s fucking poofta.’
I didn’t want to get into a homophobia thing with her so I said, ‘How does he get away with insulting you like that?’
She did a demure lift of the shoulders. ‘Because is true. I used to run brothel.’
I had no idea how to respond to that.
At an unmarked door, she waved her pass card. The room was open-plan and roughly half of the entire thirty-sixth floor. There was a bar, a dining table, and a sunken lounge, and several doors leading to other rooms. There was as a sudden movement from a basket in the corner and a pair of coffee-coloured pugs came shooting over the furniture towards us.
She scooped one up and kissed it on the mouth. ‘Make yourself at home, while I find Clay. Always he’s on fucking phone.’
I walked down a couple of steps to where three large sofas, upholstered in plush dove-grey velvet, were arranged around a curved floor-to-ceiling window. On a coffee table, there was a partly consumed fruit and cheese platter, two opened bottles of champagne, empty champagne glasses, a cheesecake with slices taken.
I glanced out the window. Grease-coloured clouds rolled over the towers of Melbourne, hurling ice water on the rooftop pools and tennis courts. A flock of birds banked over the Rialto then dispersed. Far below, trains rumbled beside the aquarium and under the rusted canopy of Flinders Street Station.
‘Stella.’ A man came striding into the room, grabbed my hand. ‘Clayton Brodtmann. Good to meet you.’
It was like meeting a newsreader in the flesh — a familiar but unreal face, as though the years of public exposure had changed it to a synthetic veneer. Despite the healthy skin tone he looked like a man who had had many sleepless nights. He bared his dental work at me and pointed to a sofa. ‘Please.’
I sat.
‘Drink?’
I summoned my self-control. ‘No, thank you.’
He nodded, studying me. From his look of mild irritation, I guessed I disappointed him in some way. Get in line, I thought. Behind me, mainly.
‘Can’t thank you enough,’ he said. ‘Alerting us about Nina. Your friendship and kindness.’
‘My … my … yes. Thank you.’
Crystal sat beside her husband and both the dogs leapt into her lap. The sight of their pink, flat tongues was vaguely sickening. ‘Cheesecake?’ She held out a chunk on a plate. I declined.
‘I like her, Clay,’ she spoke like I wasn’t in the room. ‘She called that faggot … what was it? Happy Hammond.’ She broke off some cake for the dogs.
Brodtmann cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t seen my daughter for … some time; not since she left Perth. I have no idea of her movements. You live next door to her, I believe?’
‘I — yes.’
‘She wants to be independent or some bloody thing. I send her money of course, and gifts —’
‘You mollycoddle her.’ Crystal poured herself some champagne. ‘Let her be, if that’s what she wants.’
Brodtmann’s chin jutt
ed forward. ‘Sweetheart, please.’
Crystal sniffed and pulled an iPad out of her handbag.
‘My daughter — would you say she seems happy to you?’
‘Happy?’
‘Happy Hammond,’ Crystal said. ‘Hosted kids TV show in the 60s. Did you watch it?’
Did I? My nose an inch from the screen: Is everybody happy? Yeeeeessss! And don’t get me started on Zig and Zag. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I grew up in the country and they used to show the reruns in the 70s.’
Brodtmann glanced at me, and looked away. There was a buzz in his pocket and he pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Sure.’ I looked out the window.
‘Yes?’ He listened for a moment. ‘About fucking time, Marcus. Someone will be down.’ He put the phone away and called out. ‘Broad?’
My driver came from a side door. He would have arrived after me, but I had not seen him enter. There must have been several entrances to the apartment. ‘Sir?’
‘The police minister. Downstairs.’
Broad nodded. ‘Right.’ He went out the front door.
Brodtmann started pacing. ‘You notified the police today?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But they weren’t that concerned at first —’
He cut me off. ‘It doesn’t matter. They’re taking me seriously, by God.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘In the meantime, please don’t speak to anyone about my daughter’s … about Nina. Certainly not the media. It would not be helpful, and may possibly hinder the investigation.’
He thought I was an imbecile and I resented it. Talking to the media was the last thing I’d do. Still, I sensed police backsides were about to be kicked, so that was good. ‘I understand,’ I said.
The door opened and Broad walked in with — I couldn’t believe my eyes — Marcus Pugh. Good old Mucous Pukus. We made eye contact but he didn’t recognise me, or chose not to. A woman followed, short grey hair and dead eyes. If she wasn’t in a police uniform she could be mistaken for an ageing lesbian cleaning woman.